


Sparrow Songs

by laudanum_and_wine



Category: The Expanse (TV), The Expanse Series - James S. A. Corey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brain Damage, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Medical Inaccuracies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:35:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27072832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laudanum_and_wine/pseuds/laudanum_and_wine
Summary: Miller wakes up alone, confused, unable to remember how the hell he got to wherever he was. Which would be a normal kinda day, except once he starts to remember things it seems like maybe this has happened before.A not-perfectly-happy fix it set in a modern AU with memory loss that's not amnesia, and ~vague civil unrest~ as a background setting.
Relationships: Jim Holden & Joe Miller, Jim Holden/Naomi Nagata, Julie Mao/Joe Miller
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	Sparrow Songs

Miller woke up tired, which boded well for the rest of his day. He considered falling back to sleep, tried to remember what he needed to do today, and realized he had no idea. With eyes still closed, he tried to backtrack: what had left him so tired? Why was he sore all over with a headache? And again, no idea.

He opened his eyes.

The room was bright, and huge, and very obviously not his apartment. He was propped up, he realized, the bed was at an angle, a hospital bed? Room was too big, hell the bed was too big, and it was quite outside from what he could hear through the open windows. Breeze and birds.

"Okay," he said it slowly, then tried to sit up more fully. Pajamas, not an open back gown or anything painfully embarrassing. Thank god, but definitely not a hospital. "Where the hell am I?"

His legs were shaky, but still attached and they held his weight when he swung them over the edge of the bed. The movement shifted his hair and it brushed his brow, but when he reached up to sweep it back, no, that wasn't his hair. Miller peeled an electrode from his temple and felt gently along his scalp: all cropped short but no more electrodes. More than half a beard grown in though.

"Well shit."

He looked over for a place to deposit the scrap of sticky plastic and there, an end table with a stack of folded clothing. The longsleeve tee shirt was a change from his normal button downs, but the slacks looked just like his normal ones. His headache had faded by the time he changed out of the pajamas. No shoes, no hat, but it would do. The clothes fit right, so they were his, not just something they had on-hand. Whomever "they" happened to be. The lack of shoes meant he wasn't leaving, or they didn't expect him to.

And there, under the single drawer of the end table was a stack of records, books. Jazz, his favorites. He wasn't sure what that meant.

"Okay," he told himself. Stood by the door, touched the handle. "So what do we got here?"

Itr wasn't locked, but there had been a number on the door, 312. He noted that then padded down two long halls, noted vases on end tables, doors lining the halls left open to reveal empty rooms, empty beds. Maybe he was dead.

"Joe," The voice was gentle but nasal, nothing like an angel. Probably not dead. Miller turned with a half smile ready, planning to charm-and-disarm if needed. The man before him was obviously a nurse, dark blue scrubs and clipboard. The man smiled back, "It's good to see you up and about Joe. How are you feeling?"

"Little achey. Fading headache," Miller considered the man, found the nametag - Scott. This Scott definitely didn't know him, calling him Joe? Still, better to be polite now and be able to surprise them with aggression later if need be. "Thanks for asking Scott."

Scott just smiled again, nodded, then asked something which made Miller's mind go blank for a time, "Do you know where you are, where you've been since the riots ended?"

"Riots?" It was a dumb question, there had been riots all over, every place but the Capitol. That's where they would be next though, that's why he'd left Atlanta, going after Julie. Wait, no, he had been run out of Atlanta, but he had been going to find- Someone. Since the riots? They weren't still going? He'd met some people, tried to picture faces-

"You suffered some head trauma, Joe, it's perfectly fine if you can't remember," Scott sounded placating now, which was fucking frustrating. Miller could swear he heard a muffled explosion, but the air was clear. Birdsong outside the window. Scott hadn't reacted, the sound hadn't been here, not now. Fuck.

"No, I remember the riots, all over, Atlanta right? I remember fine, just fine-" His ears were ringing with screams.

"Joe, why don't we sit down and-"

"I remember fine," but he didn't, who the fuck had he been looking for? The smell of smoke, and crackle of a radio, Scott had been talking into a radio, and Miller's hackles went up: he wasn't about to get tackled by security or hauled off to a padded cell. "No listen, I do, I remember-"

"You actually have a friend who's visiting the hospital today," Scott interrupted. "Would you like to talk to Jim?"

"Who?" The air was quiet. Birdsong. This didn't seem like a tactic that would end up with him in a straight jacket. Behind his eyes he remembered a taser, being kicked out of a moving car and-

"I'll wait with you, if you like," Scott said. 

Miller felt his eyebrows work, wasn't sure what to say, "What?"

"You can wait with me at the nurses station. This is a long-term care facility, we have sofas. Coffee." 

Coffee was what sold him. Miller nodded, and followed Scott down the hall, wishing he had more than socks. At least if he had to club Scott or this new Jim over the head and take off his footsteps would be quiet.

Miller sat, drank black coffee with five packages of sugar. Thought about the fact that Scott had said "long-term care." Thought about the empty rooms, the garden he had glimpsed from out some hallway windows. His headache was back, and he couldn't remember when it had started up again.

A man with a brittle smile came down the hall and Miller tried to place him-

"Miller, come on. We can talk in the break room," and with just a nod to Scott the new man led Miller down the hall. Miller thought as he walked, Jom must be a regular, a friend who worked here maybe? Scott hadn't flinched leaving the two alone, and now he glared at the new guy's shoulders, the hunch of his spine, trying to remember this Jim.

"It's an H name, H something," he snapped his fingers suddenly. "Havelock?"

"Holden," the man corrected him, smile less brittle now, and they were in a dingy little room half filled by a refrigerator and pungent microwave. 

"James Holden," and it clicked, Miller sat suddenly in the nearest chair. He felt a rush, a wave of thoughts, heard his own voice trying to sort it out. "Shit just follows you around, don't it kid?"

Holden was grinning now. He folded himself into the chair beside Miller, looked like he was about to speak but-

"I said that," Miller remembered suddenly. "There was a riot and you shot a cop- And so did I. And then I said that, to you, before we went upstairs and they found, we found Julie-"

He saw it, saw the memory, her in a bathtub full of blood, Julie, his Julie, and the water sloshing onto the floor- 

He couldn't breathe.

She'd been whiter than the tile walls, grimy and yellowing as they had been in the shitty hotel, shitty hotel where she'd died, alone, oh god how long before, if he'd just been faster-

"Miller-"

His knees hurt, fuck, was that from falling to the tile floor? Julie's lips were parted, the drips of blood on them dry and cracking. Like glaze on a ceramic bowl, and her all porcelain pale like he'd never seen in photos or video of her.

"Miller!" He felt a hand on his knee, gripping, demanding. Was that the pain?

The water around Julie was pink, the ring of crusted red on the tub, she looked wrong, she looked like an object. He wanted to take his coat off, cover her, so Holden didn't see her like this, so he couldn't see-

"Hey," Holden grabbed him by the arm, pulled Miller's hands from his face, and he was back in the not-hospital and it was midday. Birdsong. "She wasn't dead, she wasn't. Miller, look at me. Listen." Holden had gripped both of Miller's hands in his own and it hurt like a vice, but Miller looked up. "We thought she was dead then but she wasn't. She's alive, Miller. She's here."

He could still see the blood, couldn't believe anyone could survive that and heard his words, "Can I-"

"Yeah, we can go see her. Right now, if you want, though," Holden's hands gripped his own before letting go. "Though you should probably take a minute to clean yourself up."

Miller realized he had been crying, felt curves of pain where his blunt nails had dug into his scalp. 

Holden looked away while Miller used his sleeves to scrub at his face.

"She's okay?" His voice wasn't even wavering. He needed to keep his shit together, just for now.

"She's," and Holden paused. "She didn't get medical attention fast enough, and her brain wasn't getting enough oxygen. She had some hypoxic brain damage. Similarly, you've had some traumatic brain damage."

Miller stared at the carpet, "What the fuck does that mean?"

"You're both patients here. You both forget things now, Miller. There was a riot, you were in it. We won."

"The revolt-?"

"Not over, but we're at a truce. You're kind of a hero. You and her, you earned retirement," Holden's eyes crinkled up when he smiled.

"How many times have you told me this?"

And there, not as crinkled, not as happy. Holden stood, walked away. Walked back.

"Me personally? Five or six times. It's not always me, I'm not always here when you need to hear this. But you have this conversation with someone every few weeks. Normally Scott, I think."

Miller let that sink in. He was useless, and the war was at a standstill, and Julie had hypoxic-

"You keep going for longer and longer between seizures, and start to remember more every time. I won't sugar coat it Miller, there's some things you'll probably never get back, and you're never gonna be a cop again," Holden laughed. "But I think that's more from killing people and being part of a violent revolution than from hitting your head."

Miller snorted, and then was surprised at his own amusement. Holden knew him, that was for sure, and knew what button to push to lessen the blows.

"And Julie?"

"She doesn't have seizures, so there's that," Holden joked, but nodded toward the door. "But she doesn't remember anything quite as well as you. She's living here, now. Come meet her."

"How many times have I met her?" Miller wondered aloud, but he stood. Holden didn't answer. "Hey, why are you here at all?"

"I was visiting Naomi-"

"Naomi: gorgeous, mean, mohawk?" He remembered, was seeing things in his mind's eye as they walked. Remembered a flash of her arm lobbing a molotov, pulling him aside before the riot and reminding him that all this mayhem wouldn't bring Julie back.

Holden laughed, "She buzzed off the mohawk, but yeah."

"She okay?" Miller asked, scrutinizing Holden's face as the shorted man held open a door for them. The man wasn't distraught, that was good.

"She's fine. Recovering," Holden's explanation sounded rehearsed. Everyone had been asking him. "She ended up with a broken leg, then locked up in a jail for a few weeks, couldn't walk around enough. Turns out she had a clotting condition, never knew. Clot went to her lungs. Heart."

Miller paused in his steps, long enough for Holen to stop, and squeezed his shoulder, "She's a fighter. From what I remember at least, think she punched me once..."

And that got Holden to laugh, and Miller supposed that even without remembering shit he kind of knew Holden too. 

They had reached a closed door at the end of a hall, and both men paused. Holden didn't reach for the doorknob. Miller did.

"Next time, kid? Just take me to her room. Tell Scott too," he turned. "I don't care what's waiting for me in there, or if she remembers me or. Hell. I'm just glad she's alive. I'll always just be so damn glad she's alive."

Holden nodded, and did not follow Miller into the room.

She was asleep, she had to be, she had to be asleep. Her skin was gorgeously dark compared to the white linen around her, and he almost choked just to see her like this, not pale, not rimmed in blood. From the corner of his eye he saw a wheelchair, flowers, felt the breeze from an open patio. Outside was birdsong and green leaves, and in here was sleeping beauty. 

"Julie?"

And her eyes opened, god, and he remembered this now, memories of these eyes opening and opening and opening, time after time, and- 

"Where am I?"

"You, uh," he paused, realized he had walked forward to stand beside her bed. After all that time she'd spent on the run, what was the right answer? "You're safe. You're home."

"Who are you?" Her fingers moved on the comforter.

"I'm Joe Miller, we ah. We knew each other. Or I knew you," Miller sat, gingerly, on the edge of the mattress. "Was looking for you for a long time."

"I remember, I heard your voice," and Julie reached out, took his hand. "I know you."

"Yeah, maybe. Maybe. Turns out we both have a bit of trouble remembering stuff. What a pair, huh?"

"Hm," she said, as though considering him closely. Miller realized he didn't really know what he looked like, hadn't seen a mirror. He felt surprisingly self conscious, scared, and then she spoke, "We must belong together then."

"I think so." 

Miller realized the door to Julie's room had been closed, and they'd been left alone, but he couldn't really think directly at why he notice, why he cared. All he seemed capable of doing was smiling.

+++

"You saw Miller and Julie? How are they?" Naomi was sitting on the edge of her hospital bed and pulling on compression leggings, totally unselfconscious in front of Jim.

"Disgustingly in love," He laughed. "He remembered your mohawk."

"It's kinda sweet, isn't it?" She paused, and looked at Jim. Leaned down to press a kiss to his hairline. "They fall in love every time."

"Yeah," Jim looked down, ran a finger along the sheer fabric tights that would help keep Naomi alive. Would help keep her lungs and heart healthy and safe, and keep her here for him to fall in love with for a thousand more mornings. "I guess true love is like that."

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote myself 2k of "everything is okay" as a treat to myself. I will not see myself OUT of The Expanse fandom until I've finished my dang Control fic (and that Beetlejuice one too...)
> 
> I don't know a lot about brain trauma, but hey, trying to find realistic modern excuses for Expanse situations is hard and this will have to do. I know a lot more about blood clots, and I essentially had to pick something from a hat for Naomi, so guess who gets Factor V Leiden mutation! GO NAOMI!


End file.
